


If You Can't Be With The One You Love

by lynnearlington



Category: Glee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnearlington/pseuds/lynnearlington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weird thing, is that Sam Evans is a lot like Brittany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Be With The One You Love

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 2x13.

The weird thing, is that Sam Evans is a lot like Brittany. It bothers her more than Santana would ever admit, so she spends a considerable amount of time ignoring it. Unfortunately, it doesn't prove to be very easy. 

There’s the obvious, of course. They’re both pretty, dumb and oh so very blond. Okay, maybe dumb is a little mean, but seriously. Last week Brittany asked her what season came after winter and just a few days ago Sam believed one of Quinn Fabray’s totally lame lies. 

Anyway. The point is, there are obvious similarities between the two, things Santana can’t help but notice. But then there are also little things. Like how Sam smiles wide and easy, and how his eyes kind of wander randomly during conversation like he’s daydreaming. It reminds her of Brittany in a way that makes her heart skip a beat, and her breath catch just a little, but the more time she spends around him, the easier it becomes to ignore. 

The thing about Sam is that, even though he’s more like Brittany than Santana can really deal with, he’s a lot like Santana too. At least he’s like her in all the ways that matter - all the ways that she needs him to be if she’s going to use him. 

He’s being fooled by Quinn, fooled by people that claimed to be his friends and now he’s going to have to watch another guy with his girl. Santana relates to him in a way she doesn’t really want to, but can’t help but feel. 

And that’s really what it’s supposed to be about. Using him. It’s how everything usually starts for her. It’s how it started with Puck, with Quinn, with Finn and even with Brittany once upon a time. Using people is practically second nature. 

So it’s not hard to find his buttons and push them. She presents her argument, narrows her eyes and smirks in that way she knows guys love and moments later she’s got exactly what she wants. 

\--

It’s settling to feel like she’s winning something again. Quinn has lost the Queen Bitch smirk these days and Finn’s back to looking lost and confused. The eyes of the entire club are on her as she puts her hand in Sam’s and shoots adoring looks his way. Yeah. It’s good to feel like she’s not at the bottom anymore. 

That’s how it all starts. Sam is just a tool she’s using to enact her masterplan of revenge, to put some stability back up under and to distract her from everything going absolutely wrong in her life right now. And it works beautifully. 

But she made one fatal error. She forgot that even though she’s faking it, even though she’s just  _using_  him, and Sam is supposed to understand that on some level, he doesn’t really cooperate.

She realizes this, stomach sinking involuntarily, when he stops by her locker between fourth and fifth period. Backpack slung over one shoulder, he shakes his hair out of his eyes a little and smiles at her. “Hey.” 

“Hi,” she replies, glancing at him skeptically before returning to the mirror on her locker door as she reapplies her lip gloss. 

“So I was thinking we could go out tonight. On a date or something.” 

Raising an eyebrow at him, Santana recaps her lip gloss and shuts her locker door. “A date,” she deadpans.

Sam nods, smile widening. “Yeah, maybe BreadstiX,” he shrugs, “I know how much you like it there.” 

Instinct tells her to say no. Dates will only give him the wrong impression, and it’ll only serve to bore her. Plus, she kind of had plans tonight. Sure, those plans might have been reorganizing her iTunes album artwork, and painting her toe nails this new color she found last weekend, but they were still  _plans._  So she means to say no, but what comes out is, “Sure, fine, whatever,” because her stomach seems to overrule her brain whenever BreadstiX is mentioned. 

Sam straightens, smile shifting into a charming smirk, and Santana hates feeling the answering smile on her own face. He nods, exhaling audibly. “Awesome,” he breathes, leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek. “See you tonight.” 

It takes her another minute before she can sufficiently wipe the smile off of her face in order to get to class. 

\--

It’s different to be with Sam outside of school, but it’s not because  _he’s_  any different really. No, it’s because Santana always feels differently outside the walls of McKinley. It’s like she can breathe easier, or something, just because there are less curious eyes. It’s kind of stupid, because technically she’s not any safer her at BreadstiX than anywhere else. Half the school comes to this restaurant every night. But it doesn’t seem to matter, life just seems easier regardless. 

For all of Sam’s many faults, Santana finds herself silently accepting that he’s actually kind of fun. He smiles.  _A lot._  And he laughs, and makes the stupidest jokes she’s ever heard, but eventually she allows herself to laugh at them, shaking her head. He’s still a complete and total dork, but Santana can’t help but find him amusing occasionally. It helps that she’s entirely softened up by the basket of breadsticks in front of her and the fact that she’s getting a free meal. 

Then, because honestly the world hates her sometimes, Brittany and Artie walk in. Well, no, that’s not right.  _Brittany_  walks in and Artie rolls, the smuggest smile on his face that makes Santana want to shove a breadstick in his eye. 

Sam must notice the way she tenses and stares. He looks over his shoulder and spots the couple, smiling and waving a little at them. Santana only barely catches herself from smacking his hand out of the air. 

But then he turns back, his smile quickly fading as he looks at her with serious eyes. “You want to get out of here?” 

It’s the first time that night Santana’s wanted to kiss him just because. 

\--

They manage to make it out of the restaurant without having to talk to Brittany and Artie. It’s something Santana’s extremely thankful for. She catches Brittany’s half worried, half confused expression as they walk out, but it’s not enough to change Santana’s mind. The last thing she wants to do right now, is see how happy they are together. She gets enough of that at school. 

Sam drives them to a place Santana’s never been to, and she can’t deny that she’s a little charmed when he opens his trunk and pulls out two bottles of light beer. 

“Girl beer?” She laughs, pointing at it. “Really?” 

He shrugs, but doesn’t stop smiling. “I care about calories.” 

“Isn’t a little risky to drive around with that?” Santana asks, following Sam as he walks towards this playground he’s parked near, heading towards the swings. It’s dark, the place is hidden by a bank of trees and Santana’s done a lot more risky things than drink beer in public, so she just shrugs and sits down on a swing after Sam does. 

Twisting the cap off one of the beers, he hands it to her. “Yeah, maybe. It’s leftover from a party last week. I just keep forgetting to take it out.” 

Santana takes a swig of it, pushing her feet into the gravel under her to make her swing move. “You’re not worried about your parents finding it?” 

Sam lets out a sharp laugh, opening up his own bottle. “They don’t care. I doubt they’d even notice if I broke open a forty on my living room couch and sat there all day.” 

Laughing, loudly, Santana nearly falls out of her swing. “Why are you drinking forties; who do you think you are?” 

Putting his lips together, and raising his chin, Sam throws what she thinks is supposed to be some kind of gang symbol or something. On Sam, it just looks mostly ridiculous. “I’m straight gangsta, girl,” he says, smirking. “Respect.”

Santana can’t stop laughing, her head falling back against her shoulders. 

“So,” Sam says after awhile. “You want to talk about it?” 

“Talk about what?” Santana takes a drink, still smiling a little in amusement. 

“At the restaurant,” Sam says. “With Brittany and Artie.” 

Santana rolls her eyes, her smile dropping immediately. “What’s there to talk about?” 

Sam shakes his head. “What is it with all the people in this town thinking I’m stupid?” 

“Maybe it’s because you  _are_ ,” Santana says, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Look,” he says, putting his hands up “I see things, okay?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sips at her beer again and stares out at the dark playground, trying desperately to ignore the anxiety twisting her gut. 

“The way you look at Brittany, especially when she’s holding hands with Artie in glee.” He looks over at her, expression open and honest. “I see things is all.” 

“Whatever,” she sighs, focusing on her beer to avoiding looking him in the eye. “They just hold hands for an unnaturally long time. I mean, who wants to hold someones hand for that long? It’s disgusting.” 

“Right.” Sam laughs a little. “Okay.” 

“Like you’re one to talk,” she counters, pushing violently against the ground to get her swing to move again. “You’re only dating me to get back at Quinn and Finn.” 

“That was your idea!” Sam protests. 

Taking another sip of her beer, she doesn’t say anything else, too afraid she’d admit something she doesn’t want to. 

“I’m just saying,” Sam says, “I know I’m not your first choice.” 

She raises an eyebrow at him and he laughs. “Okay, maybe not your second, third or fourth either, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here. I’m a pretty good listener.” 

“Just drink your beer,” she instructs, trying not to smile. 

Grinning, he tips his bottle towards her in mock salute. “I can do that too.” 

They sit in companionable silence for a while. “I hope it works,” Sam says eventually. 

“Hope what works?” Santana asks, pushing her empty into the gravel next to her. 

“This,” Sam says, gesturing between them. “I hope it works for you.” 

“This is for  _you_ , dumbass,” she says. 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, shrugging. “But don’t lie to both of us and say it isn’t a little for you too.” 

She shakes her head, but keeps her mouth shut. 

“Anyway,” Sam says. “You’re good to her. I hope it works out.” 

Pursing her lips, Santana stares out across the dark lot, thinking about Brittany, and how messed up her life feels these days. 

“Not always,” she says. 

“What?” Sam asks, clearly having lost the train of conversation. 

“I’m not  _always_  good to her.” 

Sam nods, considering that. “You love her,” he says after a second. 

Santana just stares at him, jaw clenched. 

Sam smiles a little sadly. “I hope it works out for you,” he says again. “You deserve things that you want.” 

“You don’t even know me,” she says, laughing bitterly as she kicks her legs out in front of her. 

“No,” Sam agrees, shaking his head. “You’re right, I don’t. But I know how you are around her and I know how you are without her, and you’re a better person than you pretend to be.” 

She stays silent, disliking where this conversation is heading. 

“Right, well,” Sam says. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, and I’ve seen the way she looks at you. She’ll come around, Santana. Eventually.” 

Shrugging, she looks down at her hands, taking a deep breath to get her heart to slow. 

“Until then,” Sam continues. “I know I may not know you very well yet, but I’m here if you need me.” 

He kicks out at her swing, and she can’t help but smile a little, laughing at the goofy face he makes at her next. 

\--

Brittany comes up to her the next day, twisting her fingers together in a gesture Santana recognizes immediately as nervousness. 

“Saw you at BreadstiX,” Brittany says in lieu of a greeting. 

Santana furrows her brow, like she can’t remember it, before feigning realization. “Oh yeah! That’s right.” 

“How come you didn’t say hello?” 

“I told Sam that I’d blow him on the car ride home, so he was kind of eager to book it out of there.” Santana smirks in a way she rarely does at Brittany, but is so used to doing to everyone else that it feels almost natural on her face. “You know how it is.” 

A look of hurt crosses Brittany’s face that Santana absolutely despises. Brittany has no right to look that way. 

“I gotta go to class,” Santana says suddenly, wanting desperately to be away. She turns, heading in the direction of her next class. Footsteps pad behind her as Brittany jogs a little after her, linking their arms together when she gets there. 

“So you’re really dating Sam?” 

“I’m really dating Sam,” Santana answers. 

Brittany seems to contemplate that or something, because she’s silent for a few seconds, before brightening and squeezing Santana’s forearm. “We should totally go on a double date again. Except with Sam instead of Puck this time.” 

Santana smiles, but doesn’t feel it. “Maybe.” 

Then, like a knight in shining armor that Santana does absolutely not need, Sam is in front of them, blocking their path. He smiles at Santana, before turning to Brittany. 

“Hey,” he greets. “Think I could borrow my girlfriend from you?” He punctuates the question with a smirk and a wink and Santana has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. 

Santana can feel Brittany’s body tense with uncertainty for just a second, before she untangles her arm from Santana’s and steps away. “Sure. See you later, S?” 

She smiles and nods instead of answering. When Brittany steps away and Sam takes her place, grabbing her hand, she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Sam tugs her away, towards class, and she has to bite her tongue against the  _thank you_  that wants to come out. 

\--

She has a standing date with Brittany on Fridays. Ever since they were kids, they’ve always gotten together on Fridays and done stupid stuff. They’d watch movies, or paint each other’s nails, have a dance party, or eat everything in Santana’s kitchen and then complain about it for hours. 

It happens every Friday because those are the days her parent’s leave. It took a while for Santana to notice that Brittany was just showing up every single Friday, minutes after her parents left for whatever conference they were going to that weekend. But eventually she caught on, and instead of calling Brittany out and telling her that she didn’t need to babysat like a child, she just let her friend keep coming. 

Brittany’s never missed a Friday. Even that one time when she had the flu, they still spent the night together. Granted, it was full of a lot more snot and general grossness than Santana usually likes on a Friday night, but they were together. 

The point is, for the last nearly seven or so years, Santana has never spent a Friday without Brittany. 

Until now. 

It’s Friday, her parents left over two hours ago, and Brittany is nowhere to be found. 

Santana paces in her room, her phone clutched in one hand as she debates whether or not to call Brittany. On the one hand, it will look desperate, and needy, and a whole slew of things Santana doesn’t want to be associated with her. On the other hand, Brittany could very well be dead in a ditch right now. She can’t think of another reason Brittany’s not here. 

Finally giving in, Santana slides her phone open and presses speed dial, holding it to her ear to hear it ring. 

“Hello?” Brittany answers innocently. 

“Hey, where are you?” 

There’s a pause, and Santana feels her heart sink just a little in her chest. “Um, I’m with Artie,” Brittany answers. “We have a date tonight.” 

“Oh, right,” Santana says, her heart racing a little. She flexes her hand in and out of a fist. 

“Santana,” Brittany says softly. 

She manages to get control of herself to save face, closing her eyes and swallowing hard. “I was just calling you to tell you not to bother coming over tonight,” she says. “So it’s a good thing you weren’t planning on it.” 

“Santana,” Brittany repeats, sounding like she’s going to say something Santana absolutely does not want to hear. 

“Anyway, I’ve got a date with Sam tonight. I’ll talk to you later.” 

She hangs up on the sound of Brittany’s voice and chucks her phone across her living room. 

\--

Without Brittany there, Santana doesn’t really know how to occupy herself. She’s halfway to deciding on walking to Puck’s and bothering him, when her doorbell rings, confusing her. 

She crosses the fingers of right hand that it’s Brittany. 

She crosses the fingers on her left hand that it’s not. 

When she pulls the door open, Sam is standing on her stoop, guitar case in one hand, and a stupid smile on his face. “Hey,” he greets happily. 

She’s annoyingly relieved to see him, if only to have something to do. Stepping to the side, she gestures into her house. “Hi.” 

“Thought maybe you might need something to do tonight,” he says as he steps in and kicks his shoes off. 

“You clearly don’t know me very well if you think I’m not busy on a Friday night,” she replies, shutting the door, and crossing her arms over her chest. 

Shrugging, Sam chuckles. “Okay, okay, well. I had nothing to do tonight and since my parents are out of town, like always, the house is creepily empty. I’d kinda rather be with you than over there.” 

Before Santana can say anything, Sam continues. “Brittany mentioned that sometimes you guys hang out on Fridays, but I know she’s with Artie tonight, so I thought maybe there was a chance you were alone.” 

Santana hates the way her stomach flips. Rolling her eyes, she passes him. “I guess I can give you a pity hang out. It  _is_  so important to help those in need.” 

Sam shakes his head, following her. “You’re so charitable.” 

Looking over her shoulder, Santana smirks. “I know, right?” 

She walks over to the couch and sits down, watches Sam do the same before pointing at his guitar case. “What’s that for?” 

Looking suddenly sheepish, Sam stares at the object in question. “I thought maybe I could play you a song?” 

It bothers her.  _A lot_. She’s not entirely sure  _why_  it bothers her so much, but it just makes her think about all the girls that have been sung to in glee. Or, more accurately, it makes her think about how she hasn’t been sung to.  _Ever_. 

Santana scoffs. “How romantic,” she mocks. 

Sam shrugs, his cheeks a little flushed. “It’s just something to do.” 

“Something  _romantic_  to do,” she counters. “You remember the part where this is just all about revenge and not  _legitimate_  dating, right?” 

Sam smiles, a little sadly, and shrugs again. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know how to do this any differently.” 

Suddenly, Santana’s reminded of Brittany. It’s probably that innocent and open expression on Sam’s face, or the way he’s smiling at her like she’s just kicked him when he’s down. Whatever it is, she wants it to go away. 

“Okay, fine,” she says finally, leaning back into the cushions. “But it better be something good. And nothing you played for Fabray.” 

Sam laughs, nodding. “Nothing that I played for Quinn. Check.” 

“Well,” Santana says when he doesn’t move. “Put a move on, buddy.” 

Taking his guitar out, Sam smiles at her and sets up to play. “I hope you like it,” he whispers before starting. 

He starts to play, and Santana spends the entire time pretending like she’s not loving every moment of it. 

They talk in between songs about a plethora of things Santana’s not used to talking about. They talk about glee, about Quinn and Finn, about Brittany, about absent parents and how Sam secretly dyes his hair. 

Sam tells her about how nerve wrecking it is to be the new kid, and against her better will, Santana tells Sam how hard it is to play second fiddle to Quinn Fabray. 

She tells herself that she’s only talking because this is what she’d do if Brittany were here. It’s a Pavlovian response to Friday more than anything else and it’s  _not_  because Sam’s smile is comforting, and the way he looks at her makes her stop worrying about the world’s judgement. She tells herself all this to make herself feel better, but she knows, somewhere deep inside, that Sam’s crawling under her skin whether she wants him to or not. 

With Brittany’s absence so recent, and the absence of her parents so tangible in the empty house, Santana finds herself doing nothing to stop him. 

\--

Much later that night, after Sam’s fingers are sore from his guitar strings, and Santana catches herself yawning, Sam packs his guitar away and stands to leave. 

She walks him to the door, shaking her head at herself. There’s just something so normal feeling about the whole ordeal that Santana is entirely unused to. 

He turns to her at the door and smiles. “Thanks for letting me hang out,” he says softly. 

There’s an insult right there. It’s sitting on the tip of her tongue, but it won’t come out. Instead, she takes a deep breath, looks up into his eyes and without thinking about how she should absolutely not be doing this, she grabs the back of his neck and presses their lips together. 

Sam jerks forward at the kiss, the sound of his guitar dropping from his hand resounding through the foyer. His hands grab her waist, pulling their bodies in together. 

She smiles into the kiss, threading her fingers in his hair, and arching into him. “Come on,” she whispers, pulling back a little and walking backwards towards the living room. “I’m a lot better at this than Quinn, and I can promise you a much better time.” 

Sam’s eyes wide, but he doesn’t fight her pull, walking with her towards the couch they were on earlier. “I thought we weren’t really dating.” 

Santana rolls her eyes, twirling them when they get to the couch and pushing him down onto it with a firm hand on his chest. “Sex isn’t dating,” she states, straddling his waist and smirking. 

He looks like he wants to argue, but her lips are on his again before he can speak. 

\--

Surprisingly, Sam isn’t terrible at the sex thing. He’s not  _Brittany,_  who knows Santana’s body much better than a best friend probably should. But he’s not Finn, either, who wouldn’t know where to put his dick if she gave him six hours, a map and a flashlight. 

Sam is calm, and comfortable as he lies on top of her, face flushed and cock hard between her legs. His hands are firm and sure where they slide over her skin, palming her boob and then down her abs, flicking against her clit like he’s been doing it for years. 

She gasps in surprise when her stomach starts to tighten, breath becoming harder and harder to pull into her lungs. He’s smiling above her, and if she weren’t about seconds from coming against his fingers, she’d smack him. 

It’s not long after her orgasm shoots through her that Sam is scrambling for a condom, pushing it on and staring down at her seriously. “Okay?” He says, as if asking permission. 

She laughs, rolls her eyes, and tries to speak despite still trying to catch her breath. “Don’t be stupid.” 

Then, he’s inside her, pressing her back into the couch and pressing their lips together, tongue mimicking his thrusts against hers. She wraps her legs around his hips, and tangles her fingers in his hair, tugging slightly as she bites lightly on his bottom lip. 

Suddenly, he pulls away from her mouth, leaning up a little on arm, palm pressed into the cushion next to Santana’s head. Smiling at her, he glides his hand back down her abs, pressing against her clit again as he keeps thrusting in and out. 

She’s sensitive and surprisingly turned on by the hard abs above her and the veins in the bicep holding him up. Inhaling sharply, she runs her nails down his chest, squeezing his hips tightly. It’s not long before she’s coming again, squeezing his cock rhythmically until he’s collapsing on top of her, breathing harshly into her ear. 

Thankfully, he rolls off of her before she’s crushed, sliding the condom off and tying it before chucking it onto the floor. 

She runs a hand through her hair and shifts a little, willing her heart to slow down. Sam laughs, brushing sweaty hair off her forehead and smirking down at her. “Good?” 

Santana lies about a lot of things, but she doesn’t see the point in doing it right now. “Yeah,” she admits. “You’re not bad for a bottled blond dork.” 

“So you’d be into again?” 

The question seems weird, and something in the back of her mind sense a trap. Her brow furrows. “Yeah, sure. I’m always down.” 

“Good,” Sam says, nodding. His hand settles on her stomach, stroking his fingers lightly against the warm skin there. “So it’s settled then.” 

Santana’s eyes widen. “What’s settled?” 

“We’re dating. Like, for real.” 

She nearly shoots upwards, but Sam’s hand, suddenly strong against her body, keeps her in place. “No,” she says. “Did you not hear me earlier? Sex is  _not_  dating.” 

Sam smirks at her, shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t sleep with people I’m not dating. Personal policy.” 

Rolling her eyes, Santana lets out an exhale, laughing a little under her breath. “You seriously are the biggest dork ever.” 

“So what’s it going to be? Either you want on these froggy lips again,” he jokes, pointing at his mouth, “or you don’t.” 

Santana weighs her options, thinking about the consequences of  _actually_  trying to date Sam Evans, but she can’t really see many problems with it besides the obvious. It doesn’t help either that she’s on the heels of two pretty satisfying orgasms, and they’re voting pretty heavily in Sam’s favor. 

“Fine.” 

“Fine,” Sam repeats. “Fine,” he says again, this time in a higher voice, she assumes she’s meant to realize is hers. 

“God, you’re weird.” She laughs. “You’re good in bed, but you are  _weird._ ” 

“Careful,” he says, sliding his hand up her side and smiling. “At this rate you might start to actually like me.” 

She laughs. “Unlikely.” 

“I grow on you,” he argues. “You’ll see.” 

Looking into his eyes, she feels suddenly serious. “I’m a heartbreaker,” she whispers, eyes flicking down to his lips and back up again. “I’ll only hurt you in the end.” 

Eyes darkening as he seems to realize how serious she just got, Sam swallows audibly, his hand warm where it’s resting against her hip. They both know the why of it without having to actually say it. She sees the understanding in Sam’s eyes. “I can take that risk.” 

“You sure?” 

He smiles, pulling her closer. “I know you don’t think this, but you’re worth it,” he says, softly. 

Sam’s not Brittany. She’s sure of it like she is her own heartbeat against her ribs. He’s not Brittany, but, as he slides his mouth against hers, soft and sure, she thinks she might be okay with that for now.


End file.
